Chapter 23: Hard-to-swallow food, heartwarming fireworks
The time spent in the thatched cottage seemed to be forgotten outside the world, quiet and slow.
Su Qinghan's injuries were getting better day by day thanks to the treatment of the Canglang Jue. She no longer had to stay in bed all day, and could occasionally walk back and forth in the room, holding onto the rough earthen walls. This gave her more opportunities to observe the man named Chen Ye.
He remained as silent as a lone rock atop a mountain. Most of the time, he sat outside the house on the wind-worn bluestone, repeatedly polishing his short sword, "Momenta," with a soft, unknown animal hide. The blade was as thin as autumn water, its cold gleam subtly inward, and each polish was accompanied by an almost sacred concentration. Su Qinghan had no doubt that this sword was more important to him than his own life.
However, today's night is a little different.
Early in the morning, he returned from fetching water from the mountain stream, but he didn't walk toward the bluestone as usual. He stood outside the house, carrying a wooden bucket. His gaze passed through the simple wooden door and fell on the woman who was slowly pacing, leaning against the wall. Her figure looked particularly frail in the morning light, her face still a sickly pale.
These days, she'd been eating the barbecue he brought back. A rabbit, a few birds, cooked in the most primitive way possible over a fire, sprinkled with a light layer of salt. For him, it was the most efficient way to fill his stomach, but for a woman with deep internal injuries, it was perhaps too rough and too hot.
A vague thought, pulled up from the depths of his memory by some unfamiliar emotion: a kind of food that is slowly cooked with white rice and water, eventually becoming warm, soft, and sticky.
Porridge.
Once the word surfaced in his mind, it remained there. He wanted her to eat something warm and easily digestible. This desire was so pure and strong that it made him, a top assassin accustomed to solving every problem in the most efficient way, resolutely decide to step into a new and unknown and dangerous area he had never set foot in before: the kitchen.
He walked into the ramshackle side room and poured half a bowl of white rice from a dusty cloth bag in the corner. He stared at the glistening rice grains in his hand for a long time, then, imitating some distant, hazy memory, he poured the rice into the black iron pot and scooped a large ladle of water into it, his movements as clumsy as a toddler's.
Everything is ready, just waiting for the fire.
Then, Su Qinghan had the opportunity to witness a scene that was enough to overturn all her understanding of the term "top master".
In the dead of night, the skilled assassin of Tianji Pavilion, a man who could take heads in the midst of thousands of soldiers and disregard the strict guards, was now completely defeated by a small stove.
He squatted down, shoved a pile of dry firewood into the hearth, took out a flint, and with a few "cracks, crackles," lit the dry grass for kindling. A cluster of orange-yellow flames leaped up happily, and a hint of the almost invisible satisfaction of "control" flashed across his usually expressionless face.
However, the next second, reality gave him a loud slap in the face.
He clearly didn't understand the principle of "too much is as bad as too little" and stuffed a bundle of untreated firewood, even a little damp from the morning dew, into the fire, completely blocking the air circulation. The pitiful flame struggled desperately twice under the thick smoke before tragically going out.
“Huh~~~~”
The billowing black smoke, like a demon that had been imprisoned for a thousand years finally found an exit, suddenly poured out from the stove, instantly sweeping across the entire side room, and spreading towards the main house in a domineering manner.
“Cough… cough cough cough…”
Chen Ye was choked by this sudden "hidden weapon" and retreated repeatedly. For the first time, his usually cold eyes showed such vivid emotions, a mixture of surprise and embarrassment. He subconsciously waved his arms, trying to disperse the choking smoke. The movement formed a sharp contrast with his usual clean and neat swordsmanship, making him look ridiculous and helpless.
Su Qinghan, leaning against the bed, was initially curious, then surprised, and finally, the corners of her mouth curled up uncontrollably, forming a faint smile. She realized that this man seemed to have put all his life's skills into "stealth" and "assassination," so that in the realm of "life," his performance was simply appalling.
He didn't give up.
For Zhuying, mission failure was unacceptable. At this moment, he had elevated the priority of the temporary task of "making a fire and cooking" to the same level as assassinating an imperial official.
He held his breath and, like a ghost, rushed into the smoke, pulling out all the half-cooked firewood, rearranging it, and lighting it again. This time, he had learned from his mistakes and left ample space between the firewood. The flames shot up high with a vengeful passion.
He was satisfied. But a new crisis ensued.
The fire was so big that its greedy tongues licked the black bottom of the pot, even crossing the edge of the stove and burning the small pile of hay next to it for kindling!
"careful!"
There was a hint of urgency in Su Qinghan's voice that she herself was not aware of.
Chen Ye's reaction was as fast as lightning. Almost at the same time she spoke, he had scooped a full bucket of water from the water tank and poured it towards the out-of-control flames.
“Sizzle!”
There was a loud bang, accompanied by a large cloud of rising steam. The open flame was extinguished, but at the cost of the finally stable fire in the stove, it was also doused in pieces. Only a few stubborn wisps of green smoke remained, shivering in the humid air.
The entire kitchen was now a shambles. Black soot, brown muddy water, and half-burned firewood formed a postmodern painting filled with tragedy and tragedy.
Su Qinghan sat on the bed, looking at the man standing in the middle of the mess, his figure still upright but his back full of stiffness and frustration. The indestructible iceberg in his heart, built of hatred and vigilance, was melting and collapsing at an incredible speed in this ridiculous farce.
It turned out that the assassin in the Tianji Pavilion was just a mortal who would be in a hurry for a meal.
She thought he would give up this time.
However, there seems to be no word "give up" in Shen Ye's dictionary.
He cleaned up the mess in silence, and then, with a concentration and obsession that was almost like cracking the most complex mechanism, he began his third and most cautious attempt.
He put the firewood in one by one, carefully observing the color and size of the flames, carefully maintaining the hard-earned warmth. Finally, a stable and gentle flame began to dance peacefully in the stove.
Su Qinghan watched quietly in the house and found that his heart had calmed down as the flame became more stable.
The subsequent porridge-making process was also filled with exploration and uncertainty. He didn't know the optimal ratio of water to rice, whether to use high or low heat, or how long to simmer. He simply stood stubbornly by the stove, stirring the pot periodically with a freshly sharpened stick. His movements were like testing an unknown trap, each one imbued with the caution of a formidable enemy.
Time passes slowly in the smoke of fireworks.
When Chen Ye finally walked out of the smoke-filled "battlefield" holding a coarse porcelain bowl, Su Qinghan's mood was so complicated that it was difficult to describe.
He walked over to her and handed her the bowl.
It was a bowl of... appalling "porridge".
The rice was rice, the water was water, each distinct within the bowl, declaring its own independence. A few grains of overcooked rice sank to the bottom, while many more lay half-cooked, suspended in the broth like lost children. A rich, smoky aroma, a mixture of incomplete wood burning and a hint of burnt pot, assaulted my nostrils. A ring of black ash clung to the rim of the bowl, a silent rebuke of its recent ordeal.
After Shen Ye handed her the bowl, he stood aside with his hands hanging down, saying nothing. He lowered his head slightly, not even daring to meet her gaze. He just pursed his lips tightly, his jawline as tense as a string about to break.
That look didn't seem like he was waiting for praise, but more like an anxious apprentice waiting for the master's severe judgment.
Su Qinghan's gaze slowly moved from the bowl of porridge to his face.
A long streak of gray had appeared on his handsome face, stretching from his eyebrow to his chin, like a kitten caught stealing food. His hair, usually neatly combed, was now a little disheveled, with a few unruly strands wet with sweat and plastered to his forehead.
The most important thing is his eyes.
In those eyes, as calm as the abyss of an ancient well, which had awakened countless people from nightmares, two words were now clearly written on them - tension.
He is nervous.
This realization, like a weak but warm electric current, instantly hit the softest and most vulnerable corner of Su Qinghan's heart.
She suddenly understood everything.
His entire morning's efforts weren't a whim, nor were they idle pastimes. He simply wanted her to eat something that would comfort her and nourish her stomach. He was simply using the only method he knew and the one he was best at—learning how to care for someone, like carrying out a top-notch assassination mission.
He was a terrible student, terribly so.
But it's also so serious that it makes people feel sad.
Su Qinghan reached out and gently took the coarse porcelain bowl, still warm from the stove. She said nothing, simply lowered her head, scooped up a spoonful with a wooden spoon, brought it to her lips, blew gently on the almost non-existent heat, and then put it into her mouth.
The next second, she used all her self-control to not spit out the "porridge".
The rice grains were undercooked, with hard cores. The soup was astringent, thick with the smell of smoke. The taste was even more unbearable than the bitterest herbal soup she had ever tasted.
She swallowed the porridge with difficulty and calmly, feeling that her throat and stomach were making silent protests.
She raised her head and met Chen Ye's gaze, which was fixed on her without blinking. The tension and anticipation in his eyes almost overflowed from his deep eyes.
At that moment, Su Qinghan's heart was completely overwhelmed by a sour, funny, yet extremely warm emotion.
All the vigilance, all the alienation, all the grudges, collapsed in front of his helpless look, waiting for "judgment".
She couldn't bear it anymore.
"Puff~"
A soft laugh, like a pebble dropped into a still lake, escaped her lips. It was a gentle sound at first, but soon, as if a long-dormant switch had been flipped, the laughter could no longer be suppressed.
“Heh… heh… hahahahaha…”
She laughed so hard she collapsed, her shoulders trembling slightly, tears streaming down her face, straining the wound in her chest and causing bouts of mild coughing. She couldn't remember how long it had been since she'd laughed so heartily, without any purpose, so purely. Ever since her father's tragic death, the moment she'd shouldered the deepest hatred, smiling had become the most luxurious, yet the most distant, thing in her life.
Shen Ye was completely stunned.
He stood there, like a petrified statue. He had imagined every possible reaction she might have: a frown, disgust, anger, or even throwing the bowl of food in his face. The only thing he hadn't imagined was her laughing.
The smile was so hearty and brilliant, like a ray of the brightest spring sunshine, instantly penetrating the gloom and bloodiness of the hut, and without warning, illuminating his heart that had been wrapped in darkness and coldness for many years.
He stood there, looking at her beautiful smile, and for a moment, he was almost mesmerized.
"You..." Su Qinghan finally stopped laughing, tears still glittering in the corners of her eyes. She raised her sparkling eyes, looking at him with a hint of tenderness and mischief that she herself hadn't noticed, "Have you... never been in the kitchen in your life?"
Chen Ye's face, starting from the base of his ears, quickly turned a thin layer of red at a speed visible to the naked eye. He turned his head away awkwardly, avoiding her smiling gaze, and squeezed out a stiff syllable from his throat: "Hmm."
Seeing him, his face covered in dirt from the smoke from the stove, and now embarrassed like a child who had done something wrong, Su Qinghan couldn't help but let a faint, yet captivating smile play across her lips. That smile was like the first red plum blossom quietly blooming in the cold winter, pure and beautiful.
She pushed the bowl of porridge back to him, her voice soft and unfamiliar even to herself: "Throw it away. You can't eat this. It will upset your stomach."
Then, she raised her chin toward the kitchen and spoke briskly, as if instructing an old friend: "Go wash another half bowl of rice, making sure the water covers the rice grains by two fingers. This time, listen to me, and we'll start over."
A flicker of disbelief and astonishment flashed across Chen Ye's eyes, and then that astonishment transformed into an indescribable, bright light. He didn't ask why, but simply nodded heavily, turned, and headed for the kitchen, his movements moving with an unprecedented, joyful alacrity.
A wonderful and heartwarming "distance teaching" began like this.
"The fire can't be too big, or the porridge will dry out. Use a low fire and simmer it slowly." Su Qinghan's voice came from the inner room, gentle and patient.
In the side room, Shen Ye immediately removed most of the firewood, his expression focused as if he was dismantling a most sophisticated bomb.
"After the water boils, use a spoon to gently stir it in one direction. This will prevent the rice grains from sticking to the bottom of the pot and make the porridge thicker."
Chen Ye picked up the wooden spoon and meticulously, with a stability and precision that was almost like practicing sword moves, slowly and in the same direction, stirred the rice porridge that was gradually bubbling in the pot.
"Add a pinch of salt to enhance the flavor."
Shen Ye picked up a pinch of salt from the salt shaker with great caution, as if it was not salt but some kind of highly poisonous powder.
Watching his clumsy yet earnest back, Su Qinghan felt a sense of peace. She leaned against the headboard, gently instructing him on how to season the food, how to control the heat, and how to judge whether the rice was cooked through. And he, like a most obedient student, followed every word she said with pinpoint precision, without a single question or compromise.
This time, the smell coming out of the pot was no longer choking smoke, but a sweet, warm smell with the aroma of grains.
For the first time, this small house, once filled with blood and pain, felt the scent of everyday life. This scent, more than any panacea, could soothe her heart, burdened with so much hatred.
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